


take my heart, pull it apart

by arekiras



Series: i have run through the fields of pain and sighs [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Coming Out, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Halward Pavus' A+ Parenting, M/M, Magical transitioning, No Transphobia, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Last Resort of Good Men, Trans Inquisitor (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:08:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24735151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arekiras/pseuds/arekiras
Summary: “God of secrets and knowledge and secret knowledge that can only be held deep within a heart. Fear and Deceit circling your head, always, crying out for your attention, diving down and digging into your face with sharp talons, needles. A feeling of wrongness within and without, aching ribs and a chest that never sits quite flat.”—A series of coming outs, in five parts.
Relationships: Inquisitor & Companions (Dragon Age), Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Series: i have run through the fields of pain and sighs [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1771810
Comments: 3
Kudos: 55





	take my heart, pull it apart

**Author's Note:**

> The Dalish words in this fic come from @dalishious’s semi canon Elven words for gender and sexuality on tumblr.   
> The Inquisitor’s experiences with dysphoria are lightly discussed in this fic, mainly through conversation with Cole, and based on my experiences as a trans person, but there is no transphobia from any character, nor do I plan for there to be in any fic in this series. That said, if you think anything requires a warning or tag, lmk.   
> Find me on tumblr @transamatus

i- Solas

Ematuelanuren can tell it’s coming up on six months since his last ritual without checking the date; he can feel it in the throbbing headache that forms behind his eyes and the head rush he gets when he stands up. His voice has begun cracking more, his normal register sounding strained even to his own ears. When he first departed for the Conclave those months ago, he expected to be back with the clan well before this became a problem. However, that won’t be happening anytime soon, and this is something that needs to be resolved sooner rather than later. 

He’s certain Circle mages may have their own methods, but he’d sooner let a varghest give him a check up than allow a Circle enchanter to tamper with his body. This leaves Ematuelanuren short of options, however, so he comes to hover in the bottom level of the tower that Solas has claimed for his artwork, standing silently while the older elf dabs away at one of his newer frescoes. 

Solas isn’t one to rush his work, and Ematuelanuren isn’t one to intrude, so it’s several minutes before Solas lays down his brush and says, “Can I help you,  _ lethallin _ ?” 

“I hope so,” Ematuelanuren says, perching on the edge of Solas’ desk, avoiding the scattered papers and artefacts there. Solas’ brow furrows at his chosen seat, but says nothing, taking the chair and regarding him with calm eyes. 

“Is something wrong?” Solas asks. 

Ematuelanuren fidgets with the charms on his bracelet, fingering the small carved figure of a leaping hare, meant to symbolize Andruil. Solas follows the movement with his gaze but says nothing, giving Ematuelanuren time to collect his thoughts. “Not especially. I need your help with a magical ritual to revitalize a spell.” 

“What spell?” Solas presses, leaning in and pinning Ematuelanuren with the full force of his cool, still eyes. Ematuelanuren has no idea how old Solas is, his lack of hair and smoothly carved features making him seem almost ageless, but he feels the weight of centuries holding him at attention when Solas makes eye contact with him like that. He probably intends to seem attentive, but the result of Solas’ full attention can be rather disconcerting. 

“It’s for…” Ematuelanuren flounders, not knowing how to even begin describing it in the King’s Tongue, but then remembers the reason he approached Solas for this in the first place, “ _ him-ma _ .” It’s how his Keeper always referred to it, the way she helped him change his body with magic and specially prepared injected potions.  _ Become yourself _ , she told him gently, helping him with the injection the first time. 

Solas nods slowly, leaning back in his seat and furrowing his brow thoughtfully. “You are  _ hanalen-ma _ ,” he says. Ematuelanuren sighs, relieved, and nods. Outside of the Dalish, even among elves, he couldn’t be sure such a concept would translate, the phrase means  _ found self _ , which is hardly descriptive outside of its intended context. He prefers it to any of the language he’s discovered outside of his clan, however. The way Krem’s comrades explained that he was “born a woman” left a bad taste in his mouth. Ematuelanuren wasn’t born anything but himself. 

“This spell, it’s for your body, yes?” Solas continues, seemingly unperturbed by this revelation. Ematuelanuren didn’t expect Solas to be the kind of person who would find such information disturbing or confusing, but he has also learned not to assume anything about anyone. It seems good and decent sense barely exists outside of the clan, at least in ways that are clear to Ematuelanuren. 

“To help me keep a more masculine appearance, mostly. It’s combined with a potion I take through an injection once a month, which I can make myself easily enough. The spell has to be invigorated every half a year or else it begins to wear off, however, and the ritual to do it requires more than one person,” Ematuelanuren explains. 

“I am familiar with such spells,” Solas says, which does not surprise Ematulanuren in the least. The only magic Solas seems  _ unfamiliar  _ with is what is currently crackling in Ematuelanuren’s palm. “I’d be happy to help,  _ lethallin _ . But I am surprised you asked me.” 

Ematuelanuren raises his eyebrows. “Why? I respect you and your magical skills.” 

Solas smiles. “And I appreciate your respect, and return it wholeheartedly. I merely thought that there may be another mage you’d rather go to, for such an intimate ritual. Are you not pursued by our friend from Tevinter?” He raises his eyebrows, and Ematuelanuren follows his pointed look up toward the balcony library. 

Ematuelanuren curses the color that rushes to his cheeks, but says evenly, “Dorian likely isn’t familiar with the magic we’ll be using, and this isn’t exactly something I’d like him to learn on the fly.” There’s more to be said about his reasoning for not including Dorian in this, things like his fear and self consciousness and his unwillingness to jostle this fragile thing that sits between Dorian and him. Solas, thankfully, doesn’t ask about any of those things, accepting the response at face value, though his knowing look doesn’t change. “Thank you, Solas.” 

“Any time,  _ lethallin _ . You will always have my support, and my discretion,” Solas replies earnestly. 

  
  


ii- Cole

Ematuelanuren sits with his legs dangling over the side of the battlements, overlooking the garden. He touches his face with idle fingers, tracing the shape of his Dirthamen  _ vallaslin _ without having to see it. He remembers when he first got it, how the fresh tattoos had been raised and tender, and how they healed to become just another part of his skin so slowly he hadn’t even noticed. 

“God of secrets and knowledge and secret knowledge that can only be held deep within a heart. Fear and Deceit circling your head, always, crying out for your attention, diving down and digging into your face with sharp talons, needles. A feeling of wrongness within and without, aching ribs and a chest that never sits quite flat,” Cole appears beside Ematuelanuren without warning, his soft reedy voice startling Ematuelanuren. 

“Hello, Cole,” Ematuelanuren sighs, looking over at the young spirit. His large hat keeps his face in shadow, but his intense blue eyes stare at him from the depths. 

“You are not your body, and yet you are. All living things are. This was a confusing thing to learn for me, at first,” Cole says. 

“Me too,” Ematuelanuren replies. 

“It hurts you. You look at others and you feel a wrenching pain deep in your gut. Blackwall’s beard, Iron Bull walking around with a shirt pridefully, the way Dorian feels pressed against you when you kiss. You will never have those things, and it hurts you so badly, sometimes. Other times, it doesn’t. That is confusing also,” Cole continues seriously. 

Ematuelanuren sighs again, looking up at the sky, pink and gold with sunset. “Some days it bothers me more than others. Having a body like mine is a confusing business.” 

Cole nods. “Having a body is confusing, yes. Spirits don’t have bodies, or genders. It is strange for me, to be a young man. I don’t think I am, really, but it doesn’t matter. I am Cole,” he smiles a little, the expression looking odd on his long, solemn face, “And you are Ematuelanuren. You are my friend. The rest doesn’t matter.” 

Ematuelanuren smiles back, relishing how Cole says his name. The way his mother says it, the way the Keeper and the clan do. Purely Dalish, no Orlesian lilt and roll, no Fereldan blur. The way it’s meant to be said. “You’re my friend as well, Cole,” he replies and the spirit nods again before disappearing. 

  
  


iii- The Iron Bull

The Iron Bull has always been Ematuelanuren’s hulking shadow. When he promised to be a bodyguard, he had meant it seriously. He follows Ematuelanuren into battle, barrelling past him and cleaving enemies in two well before Ematuelanuren knew they were there. He crosses grass and hills and sand and snow by Ematuelanuren’s side, keen eye always alert for danger, massive axe strapped to his back. Since the evening drinking with the Chargers, however, he’s kept a close eye on Ematuelanuren himself. 

When they crest another sand dune, the sun beating down relentlessly on the Western Approach and Ematuelanuren draws in a rattling breath, rubbing at the middle of his chest and sighing before continuing, he sees Bull frown. They’re silent until they reach Griffon Wing Keep, however, mostly to conserve energy if nothing else. Even Dorian’s bitter complaints about sand in unmentionable places have died down. Varric is beginning to lag behind, griping to himself about Kirkwall’s temperate climate. 

Ematuelanuren imagines they all must look a bit of a mess, shambling around coated in dust and sweat, but Captain Rylen addresses him sharply as if he’s in neatly pressed regalia. They discuss the situation in the Approach following the siege of Adamant and the recent darkspawn attacks for a while before Rylen sends a recruit to show them to their small, but private, quarters in the barracks below the Keep. 

Out of the sun and beneath the sand, the air is cooler, and Ematuelanuren sags into a chair with a sigh. He sheds his leather greaves and arm guards, his chestplate, his boots, and his robe, sitting in just his tunic and leggings, letting the cool air kiss his sand encrusted skin. He wiggles his toes and grimaces at the gritty feel of sand between them. “Well, I’m going to find the only bucket of water in this blasted desert and dunk my head in it,” Dorian says, exiting the room after a few moments of blessed, restful silence. 

“I’ll go find out about some lunch,” Varric follows Dorian out. Ematuelanuren grunts in acknowledgement. Now that he’s seated and not distracted by the walking, the ache in his chest flares up. His lungs feel concave and his ribes burn and grind together with every wheezy breath. 

“You should take that thing off, boss,” Bull advises from across the room, single eye shut, head leaned back against the wall. 

“What? What thing?” Ematuelanuren asks, blinking sluggishly. Bull gestures to his own chest harness. “Oh.” 

“I noticed that little moment you had with Krem in the Herald’s Rest,” the Iron Bull explains. “Don’t worry about me, boss. Secrets are my specialty. But still, that chest binder of yours can’t be healthy in these conditions.” 

Ematuelanuren knows it isn’t, but there’s little else to be done. If he wore heavy plate armor like Krem, maybe he could go without, but as it is, the binder is the only way to keep a flat chest. And without a flat chest, he’d be causing a lot of questions among the Inquisition soldiers that he doesn’t want to have to answer. Still, he’s as alone as he’s going to get, so he turns away from Bull, who whistles tunelessly, and shrugs off his tunic. It takes more effort than usual to peel the stiff leather and cotton binder off, but as soon as he does he takes a deep, gasping breath, and groans. The air touching his sweaty skin makes him itch, but the lack of pressure on his chest and ribs is such a relief he nearly faints. He drops the binder to the floor and pulls the tunic back on, feeling lighter. He slumps back down in the chair, tilting his head back and allowing his eyes to slip closed. He’s still caked in sand and sweat, but for the first time in days, he feels almost comfortable. 

  
  


iv- Varric

“Will you write about this one day?” Ematuelanuren asks Varric, looking at him across the table in the great hall. 

Varric takes a sip from his mug of ale and shrugs. “It’s a hell of a story. Politics, religion, ancient god monsters, romance, war: all the makings of a best seller.” 

Ematuelanuren laughs. “How much of  _ The Tale of the Champion _ was true?” 

“Well, that depends. Did Hawke really get attacked by bandits every time they stepped out of their door? No. Do I really know all of the juicy details of their relationship with Anders? Also no. But what I say about Hawke, their sense of justice, their bad jokes, their bravery? Every word. Stories aren’t necessarily true because every single event is an objective fact, it’s the meaning behind them,” Varric says. 

“So you’re not full of shit when it matters,” Ematuelanuren smirks, and Varric snorts. “Who will the Inquisitor be, when you write him?” 

Varric frowns, looking at Ematuelanuren for a long, calculating moment. Then he sighs, and puts down his ale. “The Inquisitor will be a Dalish elf handed the fate of the world by circumstance, young and scared and surrounded by strange humans. But, he will rise to the challenge. He’ll have setbacks and failures, joy and loss, love and hatred. But most importantly, he’ll earn the trust Thedas puts in him, and he’ll save the day. A hero of the ages.”

Ematuelanuren blushes, ears feeling all hot from the praise. “Sounds like quite the man.” 

“A lot of people would agree with you. Is something bothering you, Inquisitor? I’m happy to play the question game all night long, but you seem troubled,” Varric says and Ematuelanuren shrugs. 

“I guess I’m just sort of worried about what happens with my story when it’s finished. What people will do with it. In my clan, I knew what was going to happen: I would become Keeper one day, and train my First, and then after I was dead my clan would tell stories about me. A few generations from now, no one in Clan Lavellan would much remember me. But now, I feel like the Inquisitor belongs to all of Thedas, but I don’t know who that is to them,” Ematuelanuren says. “You didn’t put  _ everything  _ about Hawke in that book, did you?” 

Varric shakes his head. “Why, something you want me to leave out?” he laughs, but Ematuelanuren nods nervously. “Sure, tell me now and I’ll keep it in mind.” 

“Just… make sure that I’m only ever referred to as a man, alright? I don’t want any debate on that point once I’m gone,” Ematuelanuren says, brushing a hand over his bound chest. Varric follows the gesture with his eyes, and Ematuelanuren can see the moment when understanding dawns on him. His eyes widen and his mouth opens a fraction, but then he settles. 

“You got it. All of Thedas will be swooning over descriptions of your rugged masculinity. Tales will be told for an Age about the muscular, manly Inquisitor Lavellan and his rough, manly hands,” Varric teases, but his expression is soft and genuine, so Ematuelanuren feels comfortable laughing. 

“Don’t forget my virility and bloodlust in battle,” Ematuelanuren adds. 

“Why, Inquisitor, I would have thought that went without saying.” 

  
  


v- Dorian

Ematuelanuren is surprised to find Dorian in the gardens. It’s hardly his favorite haunt, what with the buzzing bees and chantry mothers, but he sits in a secluded little corner, book in his lap. There’s something serene about the image, his brown skin glowing in the sunshine, the chill bringing a flush to his cheeks. He looks out of place among the blooming greenery, the clean herbal smell and fresh air and garden dirt, but Ematuelanuren likes seeing him there. Too often do their talks take place surrounded by stifling books and the squawking of ravens. 

Not that they’ve had very many conversations lately. After the disastrous meeting with his father in Redcliffe and a night of unwise drinking, Dorian has drawn in on himself. He isn’t avoiding Ematuelanuren, exactly, but it’s clear he’s avoiding  _ something.  _

“Fancy seeing you here,” Ematuelanuren stands directly in his reading light, but Dorian’s sour look when he looks up from the page isn’t genuine. 

“There’s only so many times a man can have a glob of bird shit land near him before he must seek sanctuary,” Dorian says with a slight smirk. He slides over on the bench, patting the space next to him with his free hand. Ematuelanuren sits, peeking over Dorian’s shoulder at the page. It seems to be a rather steamy love scene between a woman with creamy skin and a man with rough hands and “turgid member”. Ematuelanuren lets out an undignified giggle at the subject matter, and Dorian rolls his eyes. “Cassandra lent it to me.” 

“We all have our guilty pleasures,” Ematuelanuren says. 

Dorian laughs. “Surely the Inquisitor does not fill his free hours with poorly written erotica?” 

“Free time? You must have me confused with someone else,” Ematuelanuren replies. 

“What is this then?” Dorian gestures between them. 

Ematuelanuren ignores the possible double meaning of Dorian’s question, and says, “I wanted to ask how you are.” 

Dorian’s expression folds inward, gray eyes darkening and mouth pressing into a line. “I’m quite well, thank you.” 

Ematuelanuren frowns at him. “Please don’t do that. If you don’t want to talk about what happened, that’s fine, but just tell me so.” 

Dorian releases a long sigh, closing his book. He regards Ematuelanuren silently for a moment, as if debating with himself. Then, “Is it truly not a problem here?” At Ematuelanuren’s confused blink, he adds, “Relations between men.” 

“Well,” Ematuelanuren says, “I am no expert on human society, but it certainly doesn’t seem to be. Not that I’ve seen. It certainly isn’t among the Dalish.” 

“What is it like among the Dalish?” Dorian asks. 

Ematuelanuren shrugs. “Every Dalish child is a gift, not just to their parents, but to their entire clan. Whatever form that gift takes, we are thankful. Who they are, who they love, how their bodies are formed; none of that matters. No Dalish elf would think to shun their clanmate for desiring the company of another man. If it is possible, Dalish adults are encouraged to have children, but that doesn’t have anything to do with who they might bond with.” 

Dorian frowns, considering this. He tilts his head. “So, you’d have children, even though you’re attracted to men?” 

Ematuelanuren feels himself blush and he shrugs again, stiffly. “Well,” he pauses, looking at Dorian’s pensive face. He remembers the confrontation in the Gull and Lantern: Dorian’s anger, Halward’s disappointment, the great chasm between father and son. Dorian’s silence the entire way back, how heavily he drank the days following. Ematuelanuren was witness to all of this, he can afford to give Dorian his honesty. “I’m attracted to women also, but I still wouldn’t have children.” 

“Why not? Because you’re to be Keeper?” Dorian asks. 

“No. I don’t really know how to explain it in the King’s Tongue,” Ematuelanuren says softly. He casts a glance about, seeking eavesdroppers, but they’re mostly alone in the alcove of the garden. “When I was born, my parents thought I was a girl. If I didn’t take steps to avoid it, people may still think so, to look at me. My body isn’t really what most people expect a man’s body to be.” He has been gazing up at the sky as he said this, but he chances a look at Dorian now. 

The man, to his credit, still continues to only look thoughtful and attentive. “I use medicine to appear more masculine. It makes it so that I can’t have babies,” Ematuelanuren concludes. Dorian is silent, and Ematuelanuren is in agony. For the first time in years, he feels compelled to apologize for this. For his body. For his identity. More than anything, he doesn’t want this to drive a wedge between them. Ematuelanuren has only kissed Dorian once, he doesn’t want this to be the reason they never do so again. 

“I see. Thank you,” Dorian finally says. 

“For what?” Ematuelanuren asks, heart stuttering in his throat. 

Dorian smiles. “For telling me. I imagine it isn’t an easy thing to share, especially outside of your clan.”

Ematuelanuren manages a smile back. “It doesn’t… bother you?” 

“Not in the slightest. Should it?” Dorian replies. 

“I thought it might change things between us,” Ematuelanuren admits, “I didn’t want that.” 

“If anything has changed, it’s only for the better, I assure you,” Dorian says. And then, despite Mother Giselle clearly visible across the garden, he rests a hand atop Ematuelanuren’s on his lap, and squeezes his fingers. Ematuelanuren squeezes back. 


End file.
